Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw Dean Owens. More than ten years ago probably. And then you find ten years have got behind you, no one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

Well, why was I so down and out when I heard that he passed away? And why did I feel even worse in that I didn’t brave the hour and a half trip by train, ferry and bus in the pouring rain to attend his wake?

Several reasons.

Dean was my first really good black friend. (I know there are dozens of people who could make that same claim.) At a time when I was embarrassingly racist, because I only focused on bad examples of blacks I had known, Dean O. shot my stupid theory to hell. (Ayn Rand’s views on free will and individualism finished the job philosophically a few years later.)

In high school Dean was one of my best friends. The good times we had together were too numerous to recount here.

Our friendship started in school but didn’t end there. It continued outside of school hours and after graduation. We’d always have a blast cracking jokes, hanging out and enjoying music. Mostly it was about the music. Dean was as big a Pink Floyd fan as I knew—so in his honor, I’ll pepper this tribute with some Floyd lyrics. Plus, I will listen to their music while I write and edit these words.

One of the nicest things he ever did was let me squeeze into his overstuffed car for a drive out to Nassau Coliseum to see Pink Floyd’s The Wall concert. I had a single ticket to the show but had a bad experience going out there by public transportation a few years earlier. I pleaded with him for a ride. He debated the issue, then decided to let me go. I was forever grateful, as the show was an unforgettable experience. Even while we were driving out of the packed parking lot, when I saw a vendor selling satin-like Pink Floyd jackets, I begged Dean to slow down so I could exchange $10 for the jacket. He did so and I had a wide grin the entire ride back home.

A few months later he sat with me in the first row for Rush at the Palladium—an even greater thrill for me.

I never had the pleasure of meeting any of Dean’s family except for his mother. I went to his place several times and she was gracious to this longhaired, unkempt boy (see photo). The one thing that stood out was the conversations they would have. It seemed like they would mumble to each other in secret code that no one else understood. To me it was hilarious to witness.

Dean had other passions which I didn’t share: cars and bodybuilding. But it didn’t matter because we’d never talk about that stuff when we were alone. We would talk about ideas because he was intelligent about many subjects. We also shared an aversion to drugs and had a strong need to break away and claim our independence. I don’t need no walls around me. And I don’t need no drugs to calm me.

Dean O. helped my land my first steady job, pumping gas. After six months I saved enough money to move to Manhattan, and he was one of the few friends I kept in touch with initially.

My brother Pete continued to visit Staten Island long after I gave up on going out there. He’d run into Dean every once in a while. Dean would always tell him, “Say hello to your brother.” Too bad I didn’t say hello to him myself.

You know that I care what happens to you. And I know that you care for me too.

Because I don’t believe in that great gig in the sky, I know I will not see him anymore. I regret not keeping in touch. I wish I could have told him how much he helped me in that transition from adolescent to adult. I wish we could have celebrated our achievements as adults.

Come in here, dear boy, have a cigar
You’re gonna go far, fly high
You’re never gonna die,
you’re gonna make it if you try;
they’re gonna love you